


Like God Loves His Plan

by ignitionspark



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 22:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10706706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignitionspark/pseuds/ignitionspark
Summary: Luke, Bray and Randy take a trip to the Compound, and Luke gets a glimpse of what's coming.





	Like God Loves His Plan

There's a chill in the air by the time they reach the Compound, and that could be just the early fall afternoon closing in, or it could be the fact that, in Luke's experience, the temperature inside the Wyatt Family Compound has very little to do with the weather beyond its boundaries. The Compound has its own laws, existing in its own world, quite separate from the outside. Luke remembers Erick muttering once about different planes of existence and other dimensions, but he never put much stock in such notions. The Compound is what is, made by Sister Abigail's faith, maintained by Bray's will, eternal in creation.

He watches Randy take things in, seemingly unimpressed but trying his best not to show it. And certainly, it's nothing much to look at: a ramshackle collection of cabins and sheds, the now-rotting remains of a barn. But there's power here, and Luke is well aware that Orton's smart enough to realize that, to bide his time until he discovers the source of it, all the Family secrets.

Bray tosses his bedroll at Luke, who catches it, looking over at him questioningly, and Bray nods. "You boys get settled," he says, "I need to see to some things." He turns sharply, walking away, and Luke and Randy watch him disappear into the trees, silent and sure-footed over the rough ground, melting into the landscape like a ghost. 

"Where's he going?" Randy says, and Luke notes that he's waited until Bray should theoretically be out of earshot before asking. 

Luke only shrugs in reply, and it's no untruth, because he genuinely doesn't have an answer. He has no idea how much land the Compound stands on, but he learned a long time ago there are others, unseen by him, at least, that make their home here. But their place in the Family and who they are to Bray remains a mystery, and Luke knows better than to be curious. Sometimes, when he's walked far enough that the trees start to thin out a little, he's seen a distant plume of smoke that looks to be from a chimney, and once he stumbled across a herd of fat black cattle with shaggy, unkempt coats. They stared back at him, their yellow eyes eerily calm, and wouldn't startle even when Luke raised his arms and shouted.

But today, there are things to be done. The main cabin's always unlocked, so Luke heads inside, dumping his and Bray's bedrolls on the wooden floor and then opening the shutters to let some light inside. The place is a large, plain room, with a wood stove positioned dead in the center. It's sparsely furnished, with a few chairs scattered around, and some roughly hewn shelves lining one wall.

It's cold in here, colder even than outside, and Luke immediately checks the stove. Someone's set it ready, with balled up, yellowed newspaper printed in an unfamiliar language and kindling, a couple small logs piled on top. He strikes a match, lighting the paper, hearing the soft crackle as it flares, then closes the stove door, adjusting the damper.

Randy's followed him in in, and he puts his pack down on one of the chairs. He's brought a sleeping bag, by the look of it brand new and lined with down and if Luke was none the wiser he might scoff at how soft this guy appears to be. 

"This is it, huh?" Randy says, and Luke looks over at him.

"This is just where we stay," he replies, and walks back outside, stomping his heavy boots across the floor, slamming the door behind him.

The wood shed's set close to the cabin, just a roof with two walls facing the usual direction of the inclement weather. Some while ago, Bray and Luke felled three good trees, slicing them into thick, generous logs that are heaped up on the bare ground in front of the shed. The timber's at last dried enough to split, so Luke picks up the axe, lining up a log on the chopping block and getting started.

He's just settling into it when Randy wanders out from the cabin. He's wearing a tight, long-sleeved black t-shirt that clings to the muscles of his arms, and yeah, the guy is built, Luke thinks, but it's the kind of built you get in a gym, decorative and pointless, not a body created by real work. 

He observes Luke for a time, then finally says, "You need any help?"

Luke doesn't answer for a second, swinging the axe down and hitting the log balanced in front of him in precisely the right spot, the impact splitting it clean and sweet. "Kind of a one-man job," he says. He's removed his coat, warming with the work, and he grabs the hem of his undershirt, lifting it to wipe the sweat off his face, taking his time when he sees Randy's blatantly leering at his exposed stomach and chest.

He lets his shirt fall back down, and Randy looks up at him, the side of his mouth ever so slightly turned up in what could be sneer, could be a smile. Or maybe both. Luke sniffs, turning back to his work. "When I'm done," he says, "you can help me stack."

Randy nods, apparently satisfied. He walks around the small clearing for a few minutes, checking things out. There's not a lot to see, but Randy seems interested in the old post and lintel structure that Luke assumes was once used for hanging slaughtered animals, draining and collecting their blood. Randy jumps up, hands curled around the crossbeam at the top, hanging by his arms for a minute before starting some pull-ups.

He gets a routine going, alternating between pull-ups and leg raises, dropping down on to the ground for a series of burpees.

Luke watches him, out of the corner of his eye, aware that Randy's watching him right back in the same sly, uneasily subtle way. He's got a good rhythm going with the axe, and after a while he notices that Randy's working out in time to it, following Luke's tempo, beat by beat.

When Randy finally stops, he's breathing deeply, shoulders heaving, and Luke's oddly breathless himself. _Focus_ , he thinks, because he can't let his guard down.

"I guess there's no bathroom?" Randy asks.

"There's an outhouse on the other side of the cabin." Luke gestures.

"Great," mutters Randy, walking off in the direction Luke's indicated.

And when Randy's out of sight, he takes a moment, pausing in his work. Split logs are piled up around him, and though there's still more to take care of, he decides to move on, for now, and start stacking the wood pile.

He stretches out his arms, muscles and joints stiff from the motion of the axe, then gets back to it, bending over, loading logs into his cradled arms and carrying them over to line up against the wall of the shed. 

After a few minutes, Randy's back, looking a little paler, and yeah, Luke thinks smugly, the Compound outhouse isn't for the faint-hearted. But to give the guy credit, he doesn't complain, walking over and picking up a few logs, setting to work beside Luke.

There's a particular art to a wood pile, and Randy sure as fuck doesn't seem to know a single thing about that art, but he's obviously trying, at least, studying how Luke stacks the logs end to end, fitting the smaller ones in the gaps left by the bigger. 

He's mostly just getting in Luke's way, but Luke doesn't protest, working around him, trying not to be irritated by his clumsiness. It's not long before Randy hisses in pain, dropping the wood he's gathered up, shaking his hand.

"What?" Luke says.

"Splinter," replies Randy, and Luke rolls his eyes.

"Here," he says, gripping Randy's wrist roughly, trying ignore the sudden feel of _skin_ , raising Randy's hand to his face to inspect it. And it's not so bad; a big enough sliver of wood to be painful, but easy to remove. Luke squeezes Randy's fingertip hard, hearing him inhale sharply, pressing at the base of the splinter. The end is exposed enough that he can get at it, and he plucks it out with deft, nimble fingers, flicking it aside before dropping Randy's hand. 

"Thanks," Randy says, sucking on his finger for a minute, lips tight around it. He looks down at the tiny wound, at the miniscule drop of blood there, and then licks it away. 

"Don't you have any work gloves?"

"Nope."

"Don't you ever get splinters?"

"Nope," Luke repeats. He's been doing this long enough that he knows exactly how to handle the wood without slipping up, so used to noting the direction of the grain, any sharp edges, that he barely even has to think about it.

They keep on in silence, and the light's starting to fade when Bray finally returns. He's carrying a package in one hand, wrapped in dirty, cream-colored paper and tied with string, and he sets it down on an old tree stump by the cabin door, nodding over at Luke. "Dinner," he says, walking inside without another word.

Randy stares after him, suddenly, instantly preoccupied, then, without the smallest acknowledgement or glance in Luke's direction, discards the logs he's holding, and follows Bray into the cabin. 

Luke finishes up, dusting off his hands, putting on his coat and picking up the package Bray left. There's blood stains on the paper, slow-blossoming red, and when Luke unties the string, he finds three huge steaks, rich and fleshy.

They mostly cook outside, over the fire centered in a small stone circle surrounded by felled logs they use as seating, so Luke gathers some wood, gets things started.

The fire's burning brightly by the time Bray and Randy emerge, and Luke gives them a long, suspicious look, noting that Bray's lips are wet and red, his eyes a little glazed. And even in the near dark, Luke can see the hard-on clearly outlined through Randy's jeans. But neither of them say anything, walking over to sit by the fire. Bray's brought out three battered tin plates and three knives, placing them ready nearby.

Luke pokes at the flames with a stick, letting them die down into red hot coals, then balances the wire grill across the stones either side of the fire. He tosses the steaks on, glancing up to see Randy's eyes widen at the size of them.

They only need a few minutes on either side, and Luke flips them over neatly with grasped fingers, quick to avoid being burned. When it's time, Bray holds out the plates, and Luke sets a steak on each one.

"Just knives?" Randy asks curiously, and Luke nods, slicing into his steak, cutting off a piece and stabbing the end of the knife into it, raising it to his mouth.

Randy copies him, tentatively taking a small bite, but then his face lights up. "Man," he says as he swallows. "Shit, Bray, this is the best steak I've ever had in my life. _Damn,_ these are amazing."

Bray smiles beatifically. "Sister Abigail provides," he says. 

"Yeah, well, thank her for me." Randy practically moans as he takes another bite, then looks across at Luke. "Yours good?" he asks.

Luke shrugs. "As always."

"I could get used to this," Randy says, leaning his head back, displaying the graceful line of his throat as he drops another piece of steak into his mouth. Luke stares at Bray, who is, in turn, staring at Randy, desire ravenous in his eyes. 

_Why are you trusting this guy?_ Luke wants to ask, but the hunger in Bray's expression tells him everything he needs to know. Not so long ago, Luke wouldn't have questioned Bray's motivations for even a moment, would have believed with absolute certainty that Bray had some greater, darker plan, beyond Luke's fathoming, but he's come to learn that even a man like Bray Wyatt has his weaknesses. Simple _lust_ , it seems, being primarily among them, and Luke is trying not to lose faith, telling himself not to be bitter, but there's doubt in his heart, eating away at him like a creeping, blackened worm.

They finish up the meal, and Luke kicks dirt over the fire, making sure it's extinguished before he follows Bray and Randy into the cabin. 

It's pleasantly warm inside now, almost too much so, but Luke knows it will cool overnight as the stove burns itself low. Bray lights the lantern, hanging it from the rafters, and Luke busies himself, spreading out and arranging his bedroll before removing his boots, peeling off his socks. He unbuckles his belt, raising his ass enough to pull his jeans away from his legs, setting them aside. When he looks up, Randy's standing naked in front of the stove, illuminated in the soft light, skin almost glowing with it.

His cock's jutting out from his body, high and proud, and Bray's gazing at him like he's about to eat him alive, swallow him down whole. Randy raises his arms, posing, and Bray's immediately on his feet. He's only taken off his shirt, and Luke can see how heavily he's breathing, chest rising as he roughly grips Randy's jaw, dragging him in for a kiss, greedily open-mouthed.

And Randy responds eagerly in kind, messy and deep. Luke can see their tongues, slipping wetly in and out of each other's mouths, lips shining, and yes, they're focused on each other, but they're both very obviously _aware_ of Luke. They're enjoying themselves, but it's plain to see they're also enjoying having an audience, putting on a performance.

Bray breaks the kiss, pulling away, moving around behind Randy, pressed against his back. His hands roam over Randy's chest, rubbing at his nipples before sliding down to grasp his cock, circling it in a loose, casual caress.

"Luke," Bray says. "I think Randy needs to be welcomed into the Family, don't you?" 

It's not a question, but Luke doesn't move, sitting there in his boxers and undershirt, still, even while knowing exactly what's required of him. He glares at Randy, who smiles, smugly pitying. "You don't have to," says Randy, but they both know that's not true.

So Luke shuffles over his knees, sitting back on his heels in front of Randy, holding his breath for a minute. Randy's body is completely hairless, even here, and when Luke leans in, his beard brushes along the shaft of Randy's cock. He jerks forward at the sensation, laughing softly in surprise.

"Don't tease," Bray warns, sharp and impatient, and Luke obeys, lowering his head and taking Randy's cock in his mouth, feeling the smooth, thick weight of it on his tongue. He sucks, pulling his lips back and moving up and down, bracing his hands on Randy's hips, and Randy's fingers tangle in his hair, holding him steady.

"You can use him," Bray says, voice low. "Use his mouth. He likes it."

Luke looks up at Randy, who stares back down at him, eyes alight. "I can see that," he says, hands gripping even tighter in Luke's hair, urging him into a punishing tempo. Randy's cock hits the back of his throat every time he goes down, and Luke has to concentrate in order not to start gagging, consciously relaxing himself, trying to think of Bray, his faith, of why he believes, but for the first time, it's hard to remember.

He couldn't even say how long it takes, but eventually Randy finishes; one last, violent thrust and then he's coming, hot down Luke's throat as he tries to swallow. Luke coughs and sputters, catching his breath, but there's no time to recover, as Bray's instantly on his knees beside him, kissing him fiercely, licking the remnants of Randy's come out of Luke's mouth, tongue searching, insatiable until the taste is gone.

Bray sits back and places his hand in the center of Luke's chest, resting it there for a moment, spread warm and wide, before pushing him away, standing up. There's a jar of oil on one of the shelves on the far side of the room, blessed by Sister Abigail for this specific purpose, and Bray brings it over, carried carefully in two hands.

And Luke takes off his boxers, leaving his undershirt on, and crawls back to his bedroll, positioning himself on his hands and knees, knowing what's coming. Bray kneels behind him, and Luke can hear the sounds of it, familiar by now as his own name: Bray unbuckling his pants, slicking up his cock, murmuring an ardent prayer.

Luke shifts his body nervously, impatient, trying not to tense up, waiting for it, because while Bray is thorough, he's never, ever gentle. Being fucked by Bray might be a reliably transcendent experience, but it's always something to be borne, nothing easy.

He feels Bray moving in closer, and clenches his jaw, head falling low between his arms as Bray pushes inside him, thick and burning, and he groans. 

"Yes," Bray hisses out, fucking into him; short, sharp thrusts that make Luke feel as if he's being split in two, cracked open and reformed into something new. Randy's kneeling to one side, staring intently, eyes glued to Luke's face, and he has to turn away, not wanting to be _seen_ like this, so exposed and vulnerable, the shame of it. 

Bray laughs, hauling Luke up onto his knees, arms wrapped tight around his chest, pushing into him even harder, muttering feverishly in his ear; unintelligible words and darkly filthy incantations. His hand slides down Luke's body, taking his cock in hand, palm still slippery with oil, pulling on it with harsh, cruel strokes. 

Luke leans his head back on Bray's shoulder, and there are teeth at his neck, biting down, making him gasp in pain. "Let Randy see you come, Luke," Bray commands. "Show him." And there's no point in fighting it, so Luke lets go, howling out a desperate moan, body slumping back against Bray's.

"There," Bray says, fervent. "Oh, yes." Luke can feel heat pulsing inside him, Bray's cock so deep it's bordering on unbearable. But at last, Bray releases him, and he falls forward, catching himself on his arms, muscles trembling with the strain. 

He feels like he's been flayed, every inch of skin on his body raw, blood singing with it. But then, without warning, there's another body behind him, another cock pushing into his stinging ass. Luke kicks out in surprise, trying to reach out, shove Randy away, because it's too much, too much, _too much_ , he's not ready, and how the fuck Randy's even hard again he doesn't know, but he struggles against it, ineffectual, still too weak to put up enough resistance.

"Luke," comes Bray's warning voice, and Luke freezes immediately, his body obeying even as his mind rebels, fighting it. "Submit, Luke," Bray croons, "allow yourself to be a vessel." And it's not right, Luke knows, not like this, this isn't what the Family is supposed to be. This is something else, a twisted and perverted version of their holy creed.

But he closes his eyes tight, gritting his teeth and enduring it, knowing that this, too, shall pass, every thrust from Randy like a knife inside him. 

He's inside his own head, trapped there in the darkness, when all at once there's a soothingly cold hand on his forehead, and he can hear a woman's voice, whispering in his ear, a language he can almost but not _quite_ understand, and then he _sees_. There's a snake, striking, fangs bared, and Randy, silhouetted by flames as Bray's voice pleads _stop_ and it's no surprise, the betrayal to come, but then the image melts and burns, reassembling, and he sees _himself_ , Luke, cradling Bray's head tenderly in the Sister Abigail as he kisses his forehead and a crowd screams around them, baying for blood, and then there's something else, something more, because it's him, again, but this time dressed in black, fitted and clean, his hair tied back, and he's standing beside _Randy_ , facing Bray, opposing him, fighting together, side by side, united and no, Luke thinks, inside his head, desperate to escape, _no_ , as the woman's voice reaches a crescendo, louder and louder, deafening in his ears until he's _screaming_ with it, the pain overwhelming and then, nothing.

Silence. 

Luke feels Randy pull out of him, and he lies there, unmoving. Bray crawls over, sitting beside him, stroking his hair tenderly. "Luke," he says. "What did she say?"

And Luke can't speak, mouth dry as dust as he tries to swallow, helpless. Bray leaves him for a moment, returning with a tin cup full of water, and he dips his fingers in it, dripping cool liquid over Luke's parched lips. He licks it up, and, with Bray's help, hauls himself into a sitting position, closing his eyes for a second, feeling himself sway as his head spins, the room shifting around him. He breathes through it, then opens his eyes. Bray offers him the cup, and he takes it with shaking hands, gulping down the water.

"What did she say?" Bray repeats.

"Nothing," Luke answers, because what can he say? "I didn't see anything."

"See?" Bray tilts his face to one side, curious and intense. "She _showed_ you... Luke," he says, more urgently, "what did she show you?"

Luke shakes his head. "Nothing," he mutters. "I just..." He meets Bray's gaze, then quickly looks away. "I don't know," he says. 

Bray stares at him a long, long time, eyes hard. "As you wish, then, Luke," he says, and the note of finality in his voice sends a slow, creeping chill down Luke's spine. "But know that all will be revealed in the time of her choosing."

Bray stands up, blowing out the lantern, then kicks his bedroll across the floor until it's lined up next to Randy's sleeping bag. 

They both cover themselves, lying down, but Luke remains. And while Bray is soon snoring softly, Randy's eyes gleam steady in the dark for some time, watching, until at last they fade. 

Luke sits, knees bent up, arms folded, and he tells himself that it's only one possible future, that anything can happen, anything can change at any time, but deep in his bones, he _knows_.

He knows what's coming, the wheels of the world turning like clockwork, inescapable and unrelenting.

Through the window, he can see the moon outside, the stars hanging bright in the sky, and he sits there, waiting, until the first light of dawn.


End file.
